(It’s hard to show, but the door is NOT open, it’s still latched. He somehow got the whole front of the crate to collapse IN to the crate (where he was) – I have no idea how.)

Is “Houdini” a Biblical name?

(Luckily, it doesn’t look like he chewed or pee’d or anything wrong in the house…whew!)

I’ll be the first to admit, I was skeptical. It seemed too soon after my mom’s death that my dad was taking women to see “Forrest Gump”. I knew he loved my mother, I knew that her long battle with cancer had worn on him, aged him, but I didn’t see what the rush was to find someone new.

I’m not sure I remember exactly the first time I met Judy, although she probably remembers meeting all of us. I’m sure we were all glazed over with cynical eyes and judgmental hearts. I remember visiting her adorable little house and while I’m sure I complimented her on it, I also know I didn’t want it to be adorable. I didn’t want her to be nice, to be a teacher, to make my dad laugh. I remember the day we all went to dinner (or something) and then we walked around Lake Geneva (or parts of it). Dad and Judy were way ahead, walking at what we would later deem “Judy Speed” and the rest of us falling behind, complaining that we never had to walk with Dad before, and whose idea was this anyway?

They announced their engagement, although I don’t really remember how they told me. I just remember that my brother, still living at home, in the house my mom had passed away in, was really struggling with the idea. I remember fighting with my Dad because I stood up for my brother when he refused to stand up for the wedding.

The wedding was really beautiful. It was small, and filled with family, just like mine had been. What I remember most was the toast that Judy’s son gave. How he addressed the fact that she had been married twice before (a fact we couldn’t get our narrow sheltered minds around) and how wonderful my dad had been to her. I realized that day it wasn’t about us. It wasn’t even about my mother. It was about my dad being happy. And Judy made him happy.

I can’t say I still didn’t have my moments. The first Thanksgiving, back in my childhood home with Dad and Judy with the table full of dishes I couldn’t identify. She had been kind and had made several that were my mom’s recipes, and yet, still, my focus was on all the things that were different. The most blaring example being Judy herself.

It wasn’t that she was the opposite of my mother, just that they were remarkably different. Judy had been a single, working mother. My mom had been fortunate enough to stay at home for nearly her entire adult life. Judy had two grown sons, one of whom was married with a child. My mother had raised two girls and then a son. My mom cooked with simple “farm” ingredients, very limited spices. Judy cooked anything and everything. It had been a remarkable statement when my dad, after perhaps 15 years of eating a large, thin crust ham with mushroom pizza from Pizza Hut every Sunday night, ordered a Hawaiian pizza one day. With Judy, her pizzas came with every topping imaginable. My dad, a non-drinker suddenly had boxes of wine in his fridge.

They have been married for more than ten years now, and I now see things so differently. Judy wasn’t looking to get remarried when she met my dad. But God brought them together at the right time. My dad, I have no doubt, had been lonely for years, living by my mother’s bedside as she fought and finally lost her battle with cancer. Judy opened not only my dad’s eyes, but our whole family’s to new ideas, new beliefs and new opportunities. More than just an introduction in “How to Cook Using More than Five Ingredients,” Judy taught us how to disagree and still love each other. I don’t remember my parents fighting because they disagreed on a topic (my mother believed the husband was head of household and had final say – most of the time) but more over something that had been lost, or something that wasn’t done right. I wasn’t familiar with this new kind of disagreement, one that was taken in such stride. I felt defensive of my dad and his opinions.

As I worked through my own divorce, some of the best advice came from Judy, who had been there and knew what I was feeling. She not only gave me tips on what issues were important during mediation, but also seemed to be the one who best understood my own needs during and after the process was complete. Even now, she knows far better than my own mother would have, what it feels like to be a single mom.

I had the wonderful opportunity last month, to talk with Judy one morning, while watching the sunrise on the cruise. It was the first time in a very long time I can remember listening to her share such intimate feelings. She talked openly of some frustrations in her own life and of her feelings towards her grandchildren – all six of them. I have never once heard her refer to any of her grandkids as “step grandchildren”. It was a moment I will always treasure.

I used to refer to Judy as “my dad’s wife” and then later as “my stepmom” but recently have found that word to get tangled in my throat. Today, when people ask about my parents, I explain that my folks live in Tennessee. While I know she will never replace my own mother (and she has never tried to), in the past ten years, she has come to mean more to me than any “step-no-blood” ever could.

I have been remarkably remiss in not demonstrating to her better how sorry I am for the skepticism I first conveyed, even if it was innocently displayed as a child’s sense of protection for her only remaining parent. I have also been remiss in telling her exactly how important she is to me now. I wish there was a word in the English language for her position in my life, the best I know to give it is that Judy is my second mom.

Happy Birthday, Judy. May this year be a remarkable year, and may it be filled with all of God’s blessings for your life.

“Eli” came home on Friday, tail a waggin’. The cats retreated to LM’s bedroom where I shut them in for the first day and have eased them into the idea of a pooch in the house slowly over the weekend. They aren’t too amused, but Eli has been patient and generally calm with them (that is, until Jonah comes out in ‘stealth mode’ and Eli thinks he’s just playing!) Eli has a shaved spot on his back where they had to give him two injections to treat his heartworm. His heart was enlarged so the treatment had to be more drastic than might have been otherwise. He’s to stay calm for the next month or so, so we’ll wait to go to the dog park until March. He didn’t have any experience with a leash but by tonight he’s doing much better and is getting the hang of it. He’s picked up ‘sit’ quickly and we’re working on ‘down’. He has yet to really eat, but that’s to be expected with all the changes he’s suffered through in the last week.

He’s also being treated for tapeworm, and I’ve had to clean out his disgusting ears (we’ll be doing that everyday until we can get the stench removed!) and he’s had a bath. All that and he still loves us!

He’s adapted well to his crate at night and hopefully will take tomorrow in stride as his first day crated while I’m at work. I’ve only heard him bark once, and that was when he heard LM arriving home for church this morning.

As he sleeps soundly next to me on the floor, I have to say, so far, it seems as though we’ve been blessed with a wonderful companion. I’m so glad we were able to rescue him, and I cannot imagine who gave him up in the first place (but we’re glad they did!)

I picked up this book at a library book sale and had no idea what it was about (I tend to do that, I think the summary on the jacket always gives too much away so I don’t read it.) “If Only It Were True” is Marc Levy’s first novel and it reads like one. It’s simple, it’s a bit rough on the edges and the plot isn’t catchy or dramatic. I would be impressed if someone told me they wrote this for NaNoWriMo, but not as a published novel (touted as an “instant bestseller in France!”)

The story is about a woman who is left in a coma after a car accident. Through the magic of the imagination, her spirit is able to leave her body and travel invisibly, eavesdropping and invading the lives of anyone she chooses. No one is able to see this spirit except for the man who lives in what used to be her apartment. No reason is given for this unique ability, other than the fact that he’s handsome and single and she’s a looker despite being in a coma. The two embark on an uneducated, and eventually unrealistic (if you have already gotten past the idea of the ghost to begin with) journey to keep her coma-body alive and to get her spirt reunited with her physical being.

As I said, the plot isn’t complicated, nor realistic. The dialogue and interactions between characters are simple, unpolished and curt. The book was a quick and easy read, taking me perhaps two hours. I am certain I will have forgotten (gladly) the context within the same time frame.

For a $.50 library sale book, I did not get my money’s worth on this one.

A novel that takes a long-winded circuitious route to its title. The story of a family divided by a lie told by one as a child that had implications to last a lifetime. A novel about a novelist, using writing as her voice, even if it can never be published.

I wasn’t impressed with this novel. The characters didn’t move me, the plot was tediously slow, the setting in England, pre- and post-war. McEwan has a story to unfold, this is certain, the the lengths he goes to, the details and journeys he takes us on seem so tangental to the point that I felt a loss of connection. I stuck it out only to see it through, but not for a sense of urgency to turn the page.

It also seems to me that stories of betrayal are limited in scope. Either, the betrayer comes forward (or is brought forward) and repents, is forgiven and life moves on; or, the betrayer dies with the secret, their penance being the burden of guilt. This novel takes the turn of repentance, but forgiveness cannot change the burden of the effects. The crime will ripple through their lives with or without repentance, and so it bears no weight when the betrayal is acknowledged. It feels empty and I wonder why all these pages should lead to an event so unremarkable.

Perhaps it is so that we realize the cross to bear is our own, whatever our sin. Forgiveness is an internal matter as much as an external one. Decisions, made in youth or in maturity can change our lives and those around us forever.

I wouldn’t recommend the novel, but for a $.50 library sale book, I’d say I got my money’s worth.

I have a need to find you today. Maybe it was the book they talked about yesterday, the one we read together and disagreed on. Maybe it is just the passing of time – what has it been, a year? maybe two, this time? Maybe it is just the ebb and flow of life, the way life goes on, even if we don’t share it anymore.

I have a need to hear you laugh. To see that smile, those eyes. There is peace there, contentment, security. Your presence is a safe haven. Perhaps the only place where I never felt pretenses, never had the need to hold back, hold up or hold onto.

I have a need to see your words. Your writing, your letters. To see the emotions you don’t always say. To read the feelings hidden within. To know, to just know.

I have a need.

But I won’t pursue it. I won’t call the number I know I could find. I won’t send the letter I wrote after dark. I won’t find your email, changed, but similar. I will leave it alone.

Because that is how we are best. Alone. Apart. Divided. That is the only way we can both move forward. And moving forward is the only way I will go. I will not go back.

This need will pass.

This need will pass.

Poka Bean recommended “All Over But the Shoutin'” by Rick Bragg awhile back and I devoured it in one sitting. Today, it was the same with “Ava’s Man”. Rick Bragg is a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist and author, who writes in these books about his family, his family history in the south. The words, the sentences, the metaphors fall on the page and into your soul with the same slow, rhythmic pulse of a southern accent. His family, his relatives are every bit as American as we might ever know, every bit as human, as real as tangible. He shares the joys and the sorrows, the rights and the wrongs, the evil and the good, making up a whole of a person, and he does it all with such grace, such humility, such honesty that you cannot help but find yourself transformed by the experience.

If you have not read anything by Rick Bragg, plan to. At some point, let the phrases of his books roll through your mind like a summer thunderstorm. Let the people of his life enter into yours as your own family. Let the love and the heritage of his past linger long after you close the book and set it back on the shelf. Bragg’s writing is the most un-forced, natural flow of words that I have ever read. And the ease with which you will feel a part of his history is remarkable.

Many years ago, I read Barbara Kingsolver’s trilogy, “The Bean Trees”, “Pigs in Heaven” and “Animal Dreams”. Not long ago, I read “Prodigal Summer”. I had loved her trilogy but was disappointed in “Prodigal”.

For some reason I cannot put my finger on, I have avoided reading “The Poisonwood Bible.” I know it was classic Kingsolver, and I know many people who have read it, but for some reason I had always avoided it. Until now. I picked up a copy at my library’s book sale last summer and finally cracked it open last week.

“The Poisonwood Bible” tells the story of a missionary family, led to Africa by their zealous father who becomes oblivious to the cultural hurdles and challenges that lie in his path to converting the Congo to Christianity. It takes the reader on a journey through this family, through Africa and through the tested faith of Christian children. It is a story of love, of belief, of faith, of reality, of the world, democracy, kindness and charity. Each chapter is told from the view of the mother or one of the daughters, complete with grammar and semantics appropriate to the character.

Kingsolver has given us a gift with this book. Tremendous characters wrapped in the culture and settings of Africa. She gives us a glimpse of faith, the blindness, the arrogance, the ignorance, the assumptions and yet the kindness, the charity and the generosity. She tells a side of history white, upper-class Americans would rather forget. She tells of the human element of war, famine, politics and religion.

I am sure that most book lovers out there have long ago read “The Poisonwood Bible” but for those like me, who never picked it up, I encourage you to do so. You will fall in love with Rachel, Adah, Leah and Ruth May. You will struggle as their mother did with her circumstances and her choices. You will find yourself angry with America and her arrogance in politics. You will cry over the generous spirits of the world’s poorest citizens. And hopefully you will come away with an appreciation for the absolute necessity to understand one another, to know from what place we have come from, and to apply our beliefs according to that understanding, not in spite of it.

Dear Bloggers:

I saw your recent friendship vacancy listed on your blog and wish to submit my resume for consideration. Your position of “Dear Friend Extraordinaire” meets convincingly with my skills and experience with relationships. Attached, please find a list of reasons for why you should consider me as an excellent choice to not only replace the friendship you recently ended, but to surpass your expectations for a friend altogether.

The following is a list of the top ten reasons why I would make a great friend:
1. I love visitors. Last minute or planned long in advance, I love visitors. My house is your house and if you can find something edible in the fridge, you are welcome to it. If you just need a break from your house, your kids, your spouse, your job, you could stop by and hang out and relax and I wouldn’t mind a bit;
2. I’m available. I am not so super-busy in my life that you’ll find me to be an absentee friend. I’m there. I’m accessible. I can come at a moment’s notice to watch the kids while you take the dog to the vet, or to watch the dog while you take the kids to the ER. Whatever you need, I’m there. But I’m not so needy that I can’t leave you alone, either. I enjoy quiet nights to myself, without lengthy phone calls or being bogged down by the problems of others. I know when to say when.
3. I know when the moment calls for a margarita, a cup of cocoa, a glass of wine, soda and popcorn or just a hug;
4. I always have tissues. With lotion. If you’re feeling sad, want to watch a great but sad movie, or just have the flu, I have tissues;
5. I don’t care what condition your house is in. You will never see me making an ugly face when I walk in the door and your sink is piled high and your carpet is the color of the dog’s fur. Not only will I not care, I’ll load your dishwasher while we talk. I’ll help you vacuum before your in-laws arrive and I’ll even take out the trash when I see that it’s full;
6. I know to bring something. When you invite me over, I’ll always bring something. Whether it’s the latest book I read that I know you’ll love, some homemade cookies or a new recipe that will accommodate your husband’s allergy to white things, I’ll have it;
7. I love kids. Mine, yours, the neighbor’s (well, sometimes the neighbor’s), I love kids. If hanging out together means we need to entertain the kids, too, all the better! If movie night means watching Ice Age 2 for the 100th time, so be it! If you can’t go out because the littlest is sick, I’ll bring over a pizza. I’ll also baby-sit so you and your man can actually have a date night this month;
8. I’m cheap. I don’t want to go into the city to the clubs and bars for girls’ night out. I don’t need to go to the movies to see a flick, either. Going to the mall doesn’t mean I’m going to spend more than $10. I’m not into designer anything, I don’t have to acquire things to make myself happy and I don’t need a restaurant with linens on the tables;
9. I’m low maintenance. You don’t need to change your clothes if I’m coming over for dinner. You don’t need to have makeup on if you want to go to the bookstore. If you need to clean out the garage and want some company, I’ll put on old jeans and throw my hair in a pony tail and be right over to help; and,
10. You don’t have to be perfect. I try to be a good Christian but I mess up. Sometimes I swear, sometimes I get obsessed about football, sometimes I feel like sleeping in instead of going to church, sometimes I get jealous or angry, and it’s okay with me if you feel those things, too. You don’t have to tip toe around me or watch yourself so that you don’t slip up and appear “un-Christian-like”. I’ll like you anyway.

I hope you’ll consider my qualifications carefully and schedule a time when we can meet in person to discuss your friendship vacancy. If, for some reason, you don’t feel that our personalities are a good match, I believe these qualifications would also make me a good girlfriend and perhaps you could pass along my resume to any single man you might be acquainted with.

Thanks again for your consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,
Eliza Jane

There will henceforth commence a day of mourning for the loss by the New England Patriots. It was a good game, but I’m deeply saddened that the Pats didn’t come out on top at the end. I guess now I’ll have to watch the SuperBowl for the commercials.